Thirty-Seven
by solsethegreat
Summary: Buffy is turning thirty-seven years old and is struggling with the fact that she's getting older. But like all Buffy birthdays, things go wrong when she gets a special delivery. (Buffy literally turns 37 on this day and I wrote a short story to celebrate.)


**THIRTY-SEVEN**

Thirty-seven. Buffy turned thirty-seven years old. This was unprecedented, no slayer had ever lived this long. But she supposed everything was easier now that there were literally thousands of her kind around the world. She was no longer the only target, she was no longer the only one doing something about things. If the apocalypse came, there were teams of military forces, wiccans, demons with souls, not to mention Kennedy doing a bangup job with _DEEPSCAN_. Buffy could literally retire.

I mean… she never would. But that was just because of her morals.

Still, it had been years since they'd properly celebrated a Buffy birthday. And that was for… _reasons._ She could remind everyone of the time Angel turned evil and tried killing all her friends. Or the time they all got stuck in the house because of an offhanded wish Dawn accidentally made to a vengeance demon. Birthday parties were always disasters for Buffy. But like… that was only when she was one of two superchicks in the world. Now she was just a needle in a haystack. She could party, right? Right?

The gang had rented a party space downtown for her, determined to lift her spirits. Secretly Buffy had always hoped to die young and leave a pretty corpse. And uh… she _did_. Twice. But damned if her friends weren't determined as hell to make her live to see wrinkles. She studied herself in the mirror, pulling back on the crows feet on her eyes as a still girlish pout formed on her lips.

"Slayer healing would be better if it was also anti-aging. Poo." She whimpered, wondering if she looked like she was trying too hard in the dress she was wearing. Short and black. Reminded her of stuff she wore in high school. She cringed as she ran her hands down the front. She should change, right?

And then, a knock at the door.

Buffy moved to her front door and answered. It was a cute young delivery boy with a package.

"That package for me?" She asked with a grin. Then a wince. Now she realized she said something extremely double-edged while dressed in a slinky outfit to a very young man who just swallowed a lump in his throat.

"God, sorry. That wasn't meant to sound porny. Not that porn is bad. You like porn? Don't answer that. Shit. Just, where do I sign?" She asked. He handed her a clipboard and she squiggled some lines on the page before sending him on his way. She took the box, studying it for a moment.

" _To Buffy From A Friend…_ " She read the tag. The box was medium sized. Maybe about the size of a shoebox for a pair of boots. She shook it curiously, the child-like wonder still in her eyes even though she was approaching forty. She unraveled the ribbon on top and pulled open the box. And when she did, she grimaced.

"Yep. That's a Buffy gift." She said, tone dripping in sarcasm as she gazed down. Three eggs, starting to shake and break open. She'd seen them before. Twenty-two years ago, after her Biology teacher was murdered. Praying Mantis eggs. Luckily they were still hatchlings, so Buffy quickly slammed her fists down and smashed two before they could open, green viscous fluid spraying her face as she did. The third smashed open and a little (well… define little. Not Natalie French sized, but the size of a housecat) mantis scurried out and ran behind her couch. She pulled off her stilettos (which were a mistake, Buffy NEVER wore heels anymore. Definitely trying too hard) and double fisted them in her now slimy hands as she stomped after the little bug monster.

"I am so SICK of my birthday gifts trying to kill me!" She huffed, jumping over the couch and narrowly missing the mantis that ran away off to her bedroom. She blew a strand of hair from her face and snarled, getting to her feet and slowly walking to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Little bugger wasn't going to escape again.

She slowly approached the bed, raising the duvet just lightly to check if the critter was down there. Then she stopped and closed her eyes, utilizing a trick she'd learned back when Marcy tried to go all _Hollow Man_ on her. She just listened.

Suddenly she turned and threw her heel at the wall, the spike on the end impaling through the creatures skull and pinning it to the wall as a little rivulet of green blood trickled out. She wiped her face, then grimaced as she realized she just smeared bug blood on it.

"...Ew." She groaned, wiping off on her ruined dress. She stood and looked in the mirror, grabbing her phone and calling Willow.

"Hey Will, about the party…" She said, looking at her reflection. At her crows feet. At the powerful woman staring back at her. She gazed at her closet and at a pair of jeans that she'd _much_ prefer to wear over the dress that she definitely decided she didn't like. Was she going to let the forces of darkness ruin her birthday _again?_

"...uh, nevermind. I just have to change. I'll see you soon." She said, putting down her phone and pulling a strand of hair behind her ear.

No, her birthday wouldn't be ruined. She was Buffy, the GODDAMN vampire slayer, thirty-seven years old and now the oldest slayer ever. She'd earned a party.


End file.
